


Crowns of Flowers (in their hair)

by Mozzarella



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Love, Flower Crowns, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curumo met his Aiwendil for the first time in the gardens of Yavanna, a crown of flowers in his hair, whistling to the birds in the trees, his golden smile brighter than the light of the sun herself. </p><p>Gandalf met his Belladonna for the first time in the gardens of her father's house, a crown of flowers in her hair, laughing with her many siblings. </p><p>-</p><p>Radagast the Brown disappears in TA 3018, never to be seen again. Saruman, deceiver and betrayer, is the last to see him, before his end. </p><p>Belladonna Baggins, remarkable and loving wife to the late Bungo Baggins, dies of grief, eight years after her husband's passing. </p><p>Gandalf the Grey returns to his mission eight years before the death of his beloved Belladonna, leaving behind a wife and son, and laying his hobbitish illusion to rest forever. </p><p>Bilbo Baggins, son of one Bungo Baggins, goes on an adventure. Since then, he has not been without his father, until his last days, and the beginning of the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Met

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is still unfinished! Clearly I've failed my deadline. But the chapters are up, I've reached the minimum word count, and I'm almost finished, so I hope you enjoy what's there!
> 
> My hobbitstory entry! An elaborate tale of romance and tragedy, inspired by an unusual dream, the art of Phobs, a prompt on the hobbit kink meme, and my own obsession with rarepairs.
> 
> NOTE: Curumo is Saruman's Maia name. Aiwendil is Radagast, Olorin is Gandalf.

[by feignedsobriquet on tumblr](http://feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com/post/84926396360)

 

* * *

 

 

It was in Yavanna's gardens that they first met, and some would argue that one fell in love with the other when his gaze fell upon the flowers woven into the Maiar's dark hair, dark like the earth from which the trees sprung, a dark that shone soft gold when the light of the sun caught the locks that curled from his head.

Some would argue that this was where their story began, though since then, there have been too many stories in which they have played a part for anyone to be sure.

Curumo was as wise as he was assiduous, making him the proudest of the lord Aulë's servants—and also the least kind, though many admired him for his strengths. Still, he feared. He was sure in his duties, but then, so was he sure in the character of the only one greater than himself among Aulë's Maiar—Mairon, who left them for the darkness of Morgoth after the destruction of the two trees.

Curumo remembered how devastated his mistress was in this time, how Yavanna was angered and saddened by the destruction of her greatest works, so much so that she seemed not to see the subsequent betrayal of her husband's own, and the fleeing of Mairon from their midst. He remembered fleeing to the West with the rest of the Ainur, finally settling in Aulë's halls, taking the form he had now—silver-white in hair and robes, his beauty in semblance to that of the flower of Telperion—the moon, whose vessel was forged by Aulë himself.

The betrayal of Mairon ran deep, and Curumo found himself doubting, for the first time since the Ainur descended into Arda. He feared that he, like the admirable Mairon before him, would fall in the same manner.

He found refuge in the trees that made up Yavanna's garden, tall and beautiful, each one different from the next, but all of which forming the perfect forest in fiery reds, shining golds, and silver-greens, all the colours of the world woven into those leaves.

Oh, but how he loved these trees. He never knew he would—he revered them the way he revered any work by his mistress' songs or his master's forging hammer, but he never knew he would love them. Since the day he found comfort in the vast forests that made up Yavanna's gardens, Curumo came to love walking the paths everyday, when he was not assisting Aulë in his works.

One day, as Valinor counts its days, when the sun shone bright and high and the trees threw cool shade, Curumo heard the singing of birds, and with a smile he reserved for solitude, walked over to where they were perched. Only when he was close enough did he realize that not every whistle came from their mouths, for there was another sitting in the grass, dirtying his robes in the earth, whistling and chirping and laughing as the birds seemed to answer back.

He was kin, Curumo knew—one of the Maiar, as he was, though he could not recognize this one yet, not so far away. The smile fell from his fair face, and he approached in silence, until his fellow looked up to meet his eyes.

It was strange to see a Maia's eyes so wide and curious, for someone so old to look so young. A fool's eyes, Curumo thought, though he said nothing as the other greeted him with a smile that shone like the fruit of Laurelin.

“Lord Curumo!” said he, nearly falling over as he stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. There was a crown of flowers in his hair, fitting for one of Yavanna's own. “It's good to see you!”

Curumo wondered how this one came to know him, brooded over being recognized by one he could not name. His pride prevented him from asking, though he inclined his head in acknowledgement as he walked past. If he was busy, tending to Yavanna's crop as was his duty, then Curumo needn't bother him.

“Please, lord Curumo, wait!”

Curumo turned to look at the other questioningly. “Why do you call me lord? We are the same,” he said brusquely. The other seemed to redden at the inquiry, shrugging his shoulders. “You're much lordlier than I,” he answered earnestly, and Curumo turned away, torn between amusement and irritation. “Curumo is the only name I need hear,” he said kindly. At his side, the other Maia—dressed in deep greens and browns, like many of the trees that surrounded them—kept in step, smiling brightly. “The trees tell me you favour their company on many days such as this one,” he said, and Curumo balked. The trees said? But they were Olvar, and had been silent for as long as Curumo could remember. Then again, he'd never spoken to them, as he'd never heard them speak, so perhaps he was wrong. Yavanna's creations were mysterious in many ways, and Curumo would not put it past his wilful mistress to give her gardens speech as well as life.

“The birds as well. They sing gentle songs, when you come around. Your serenity appeals to them,” the other continued. “Though they wonder if you'd like happy songs as well. They would love to sing for you.”

And as if to confirm his words, a small flock of different coloured birds descended and perched upon the brown-green-clothed Maia, upon his head and shoulders, and upon one arm, which he'd held up like a branch for them to land on.

“They're very excitable,” he laughed, and Curumo smiled warmly at the sound.

“You're Aiwendil,” Curumo said suddenly. He remembered, for who but he, who was called “bird friend”, could bring so many down without a word? How could any but he be so loved by Yavanna's creatures?

Aiwendil, for it was he, smiled—but unlike the smiles before it, this one was shyer, softer, pleasured in the rosy red of his ruddy cheeks.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

~*~

It was at a birthday that they first met, for one Gerontius Took, a hardy fellow with many children who enjoyed a good party and had been Gandalf's best patron and dear friend for many years. For Gandalf, as he was known, had brought along his fireworks—a lovely invention of his own design, inspired by the many fascinating innovations he'd seen of dwarves and elves in his time in Endor.

After all, his was a gift of fire. Why not show its beauty to the rest of the world, when the rest of the world had been so generous in its own beauty?

He had met her first when she was a child, though he'd forgotten it later, until she reminded him one quiet night by the fire. Gerontius Took had been a hearty, welcoming soul in his youth, and was much more so now in his age, and he enjoyed his parties just as much as his many guests did in the Shire. Hobbits were odd creatures in many pleasant ways, and of these oddities included the birthday tradition where the hobbit celebrating his or her birthday gave away gifts to every guest, rather than receiving them.

Gandalf was one such recipient of such a gift, one that was handed to him by an exceedingly tiny hobbit lass in a ruffled red dress, her dark curls bouncing as she jumped up, quite insistently, to place a wreath of flowers on his grey head. He sat down and let her climb him like a tree, standing on his lap to settle the wreath properly—a crown of many colours, reminiscent of one an old friend used to wear, ages past. He laughed heartily and helped the child down, and she curtseyed before running off, back to her father.

That was, according to Belladonna, the first time they'd met. Though for Gandalf, the first time he met his remarkable hobbit lass was when she was older—a tween in her thirties, prettier and sharper than any hobbit lass in the Shire. He met her first at her father's house, where she was sitting with her numerous siblings in the garden, all of them giggling at jokes or playing games. She and her little sisters wove crowns out of flowers, and she herself had a wreath of summer blooms resting on her dark curls, and Gandalf thought to himself that she was very beautiful, in the way that he knew many things in the world to be beautiful.

He tapped his staff against the wooden gate, and when Gerontius' children took note, the quickest one to brighten were his eldest boys and girl, who had met Gandalf many years ago, when they were very young. The rest of them looked on with wariness and excitement, having heard of the wizard from their stories, but never really seeing him until that very moment.

“Master wizard!” “Gandalf the Grey!” “Gandalf!” Each greeted him with the respect of a high class hobbit family and the enthusiasm of Tooks, each child as or more remarkable than the last. Indeed, the myth or legend of the supposed fae blood of the Tooks showed greatly in Gerontius' children, in both their individual handsomeness and the transcendent sort of twinkle in their eyes.

Gerontius welcomed him with the same vigour, setting a place for him at the table with his numerous young ones, the younger of the young soon comfortable enough to beg for stories of the world beyond and of the many adventures they were certain a wizard could share.

“Perhaps you can bring them along one day,” said Gerontius in jest, earning a swat from his wife, the lovely Adamanta. “Adventures. What a silly notion,” she tutted.

“Adventures come in all kinds,” Gandalf said. “Many of them much like holidays. Very safe, I assure you.”

“And others much more dangerous, I'm sure!” said Adamanta, though not unkindly, smoothing her skirts with a huff.

“I would love to go on an adventure,” said Isengar dreamily. He was the youngest of the clan at twenty years, and Adamanta pointed out mildly that he was much too young to go on any adventures yet, and should dispel such thoughts for the better.

“I would as well!” Belladonna piped up, as did her younger sisters. “But I am nearly of age,” she pointed out childishly, and there was quite the rousing discussion concerning responsibilities and ages, though for any hobbit family that Gandalf was aware of, very little about the dangers of adventuring wherever the road might take it.

  


It would be a lie to say that Gandalf was fondest of Belladonna, of all the Old Took's children. He was, in fact, fondest of Isengar—the youngest and liveliest, who would demand stories and ask to see his fireworks and take a great deal of interest in his fire-magic.

For a few months, Gandalf stayed with the Tooks, sleeping in a bed that the elder brothers had put together, taking up most of their largest guest room. In the morning, it was Belladonna who would knock on his door and tempt him with freshly baked breakfast pies, laughing when he complained about being enthralled by this strange hobbit magic of hers.

For a few months, he stayed and planned, and when those few months were done, he departed with Isengrim, Isumbras, and Hildigrim—Gerontius' eldest sons—for an adventure long-awaited.

They returned not long after, just as summer made way for autumn. Isengrim worried over preparations for winter, and so they came back quick, with stories of great mountains and towns of men and the sight of passing elves, and of the settlement of dwarves in the blue mountains.

The next three brothers came along a year after, going even as far as Lake Evendim and all the way up to the icy edge of the land in Forochel.

The two brothers in the year after travelled all the way to the gap of Rohan, meeting many horsemen and their adventures riding real horses, full-sized, across the plains.

When time came that the next set of Tooks would come along on one of Gandalf's indulgent adventures, it was Belladonna's coming of age year, and her siblings were much too young for it for her parents to approve.

And though there was much complaining, especially from Isengar, who insisted that age had nothing to do with how capable one was in adventuring—true, in Gandalf's opinion, though he deferred to the wisdom of the Took clan head, who said it was only fair that they should wait for their time to come.

On the matter of Belladonna, they were divided. Belladonna was their eldest daughter after their tragically short-lived Hildigard, and though they worried not about her sense of responsibility or her Tookish capabilities, that she was to go alone, where her brothers had had company, bothered them.

“Why, no offence to you, Gandalf, but I would feel safer if my daughter had the company of her own on this venture,” said Adamanta, with Gerontius huffing in agreement, smoke coming in odd circles from his mouth.

“I agree wholeheartedly, but I do think your younger children would complain of their elders having gone twice over on an adventure where they would only have one,” Gandalf reasoned. “If I were to bring her somewhere I know to be well and truly safe, would you consent to her travelling as her brothers have before her?”

It took much coordinating and cajoling, but eventually, the Old Took and his remarkable wife agreed to Gandalf's terms. And Gandalf himself knew exactly where he might go, to ease their worries as he might.

He was present at Belladonna's coming-of-age birthday party, where she wore a lovely red dress of crushed velvet, her head adorned with red roses that brought out the rosiness of her cheeks. The hobbit lads flocked to her as Gandalf looked on in amusement, smoking a full-bodied pipe of Old Toby as the night went on in celebration.

“Will you be sitting there smoking all night, or will you at least try to learn something new?”

“I am always happy to learn new things,” said Gandalf, “but in dancing, I fear I am much too tall, and my feet much too big.”

“Certainly you are tall, but your feet are no bigger than ours, Master wizard! You will dance with me. It is my birthday after all,” Belladonna said assuredly, and Gandalf obediently left his spot to join the young hobbits (and some older) in their dance.

He was, in his humble opinion, absolutely horrendous at it. Like a chicken flapping its wings and scaring away flocking birds in a meadow.

Still, for all his flat-footedness, whatever grace he had lost to ages, he brought the brightest of laughs to Belladonna's face. And somehow, that made the night all the finer.

 


	2. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curumo forges, Aiwendil romances, Gandalf travels and Belladonna adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artist claims are on April 4! If you want to draw art for this story, you can register there! :) Or just draw art of this story. Either way I will be overjoyed.

Curumo, though he did not show it, had a great love for beauty in its many forms. He saw beauty in the many coloured shifts that rose overhead within Aulë's halls, in the creations of his master with whom he forged a great many things.

He saw beauty in the trees and flowers, when he walked in Yavanna's gardens. He saw beauty, as well, in the soft smiles with which he was greeted, meeting with the good company of Yavanna's own servant, in the glade by a little lake, from which the trees drew water.

Their days were filled with bliss, and Curumo felt the heavy weight upon his shoulders, and the shadow upon his brow, lift.

Though he could not speak to the birds in the language in which Aiwendil was adept, the birds sang and whistled when he came calling. Of orderly mind as Curumo was, he remembered the names of their kind, cataloguing them as he did the trees. He studied the flowers, and what made each of them beautiful in their own right, and he pondered on their forms. He returned to the forges enlightened thus, and would set upon creating delicate crystal flowers fine as glass, finely crafted with stems formed out of precious metals. He set them to cool and considered them as gifts to one who might like to see the work of his hands, the fruits of his labours.

He invited Aiwendil to visit him at work, presenting him with the forged crystal flowers. When the Maia of the forest examined them, Curumo felt uneasiness grow within, more so when Aiwendil looked up with tears in his clear eyes. If not for the smile on his face, Curumo might have feared offending the one he only wished to impress.

“No one has ever given me such fine gifts,” Aiwendil said softly. “These are—surely these are meant for better creatures than I. I never warrant such.... such finery,” he finished, sighing thoughtfully, looking at the flowers like he coveted them—like he believed they weren't truly his.

“I made them for you,” Curumo confessed. Sorely he wished that the expression on Aiwendil's face, in that moment, could be taken in hand, forged into a vessel and kept forever, for it was more radiant than the light of the last flower and the last fruit—at least, in Curumo's eyes.

Many days they spent together afterward, Aiwendil explaining to him that he feared he might break his gifts, so he left them in a place of honour in his chambers near his Mistress' own. He treasured them dearly, and said so without scrimping on gratitude or the attentions he believed Curumo richly deserved. Curumo revelled in the attention, his eyes drifting ever more to the other Maia when he did not meet his gaze.

They sat in the glade, one day among many, on a day that was bright and warm. They sat in the shade, listening to the wind in the trees.

He lay in the grass, warming the body which he had taken in the likeness of the elves, and Aiwendil whistled to the birds and lay down beside him in quiet peace.

In time, they spoke of their tasks, their exploits when they were away, and of the Valar to whom they belonged.

“I do wonder sometimes,” said Aiwendil. He seemed to revel in idle chatter, and Curumo knew that such absent thoughtfulness would have annoyed him coming from anyone else. Still, Curumo was often surprised by Aiwendil's wisdom—a wisdom unlike any Curumo had ever encountered, a wisdom born of many questions, most that few thought were worth asking.

“I do wonder,” Aiwendil continued, “how it came to be that your Master and my Mistress were married. I mean, they are spouses, are they not? They have been since we first settled in Arda. But from what I have observed among the favoured Eldar, marriage is found after love. So then, when did they love, if they were already married? Even before they had decided to be as they are now, did they love when we were but music? Did they change, and call themselves 'he' and 'she' because they wished to wed as the Eldar do now—or did they wed because they each were 'he' and 'she' when we alighted upon this world?”

Curumo pondered on this, and frustrated, found he could not answer. He could not remember a time when Aulë and Yavanna were not wed, except in the time they were all Ainur, unnamed and unformed. He also wondered of love, and what little he had observed of it in the Eldar. He was, for a very long time, uninterested in the matters of the heart, though the sight of such love was inescapable, when weddings were celebrated so joyfully in their lands.

He wondered as well, on the subject of their forms. Both he and Aiwendil had chosen to appear as male, taking the words and the forms associated with such. Curumo knew that tempers had much to do with their form, though their temper did not control what form they took—indeed, he knew many of his fellows whose tempers did not match their forms, for their wills were stronger than the nuances of their humour. If in temper Aiwendil was most like his Mistress, he would have been she..

But no, by choice, Aiwendil was he—and he was beloved by Curumo, his form notwithstanding, and still truly beautiful in his eyes.

“I believe it was a coincidence,” Curumo answered. “And that love is not set by form or temper, but by the heart and the choice of the spirit.”

Aiwendil's eyes widened as he looked up at the light beyond the trees, and he smiled widely.

“Oh,” he said, leaning on his elbows and looking over at his companion. “Good,” he said brightly and simply, resting his cheek against the heel of his hand, and with the other he reached out and took Curumo's, the warmth of him settling in his heart.

Many days they spent this way, fingers tangling in the shyness of first love. Some nights, they gazed up at the stars, and found rest in the great branches of the trees. Other nights, they retired to the chambers within Aulë 's mansions, gazing not at stars but at one another, until the firelight faded to darkness. When they were alone, Curumo felt free, light and joyful in the company of one he loved best.

He should have known it would not last, should have known when he first caught sight of their fellow Maia, Olorin, returned from his journeys in Endor, conversing with Aiwendil upon the steps of their home.

~*~

“Goodbye!” Belladonna called many times, waving from where she stood, balancing on the seat of the cart to say her extended farewells to her siblings, some of whom (all of the younger ones, and some of her elder brothers) ran down the path to see her off until she was out of sight, disappearing over the hill in a steady clomp of hooves.

Dressed in practical travelling clothes, Belladonna felt the excitement of the journey settling on her shoulders, a welcome weight compared to the responsibilities she had at home.

“Where are we going, then?” Belladonna asked, looking up at the kindly wizard's thoughtful face, bushy eyebrows rising thoughtfully. “I know my parents made you promise to keep me safe,” Belladonna added primly. “So I'd like to know where, in your expert opinion, I will be safe, while also fulfilling the same criteria of adventure as my brothers.”

“It is somewhere close enough that your parents will not worry,” said Gandalf, “but I promise you, it is no place you will have seen in your lifetime.”

“Where?” asked Belladonna, her bright eyes wide.

“To a harbour, first of all,” said Gandalf wistfully, “where the elves gather to sail back to their home in the West.” He was quiet for a moment, pondering on his own home across the water, before continuing. “And then, to a valley, where my friends live free, unmolested by foul creatures.”

“Orcs?” Belladonna murmured.

“Orcs,” Gandalf agreed. “And other foul creatures that roam the places seasoned travellers avoid altogether. Do not worry, my dear,” he added, when her brow furrowed worriedly, “orcs cannot stand the light of the sun, and neither do most of the creatures I speak of. And there are far too few this far south to warrant more than traveller's caution.”

“Traveller's caution would make much more sense if I had a weapon to soothe my troubles,” Belladonna said, eyeing Gandalf critically. “Or if you do.”

Gandalf grumbled and said nothing of it, amused as Belladonna looked at his wizard's staff curiously, remembering the tricks he'd performed at her birthday party, with the fireworks that he set off with a wave of the gnarled old stick.

When they stopped to rest on the path, they observed a party of elves, singing solemn songs and travelling to the West. Gandalf approached them, and they greeted him as one would greet an old friend. After some discussion, all of which was done in Elvish, which Belladonna observed but did not understand, Gandalf informed her that they would be travelling with the party from thereon, for safety and good company.

And what good company she was, showing good manners and a great interest in the culture of their elvish companions. They delighted in her curiosity, in the dark curls of her hair, in her large feet which needed no protection from boots or shoes or even slippers, and when they sang and played their instruments, they delighted in her dance as she twirled and stomped and stepped in rhythm.

Many of the elves, in all their long years, had never encountered a hobbit before. They lived their lives within their own kingdoms, quiet, peaceful, and often unaware of many parts of the world. Gandalf thought it a waste, to have such a long life and not spend it exploring what the world had to offer, but he had no right to judge them for where they found comfort. They, after all, had a home—one in Endor, in Middle Earth, and one in Valinor, to which they would finally return—some of them for the first time, as they were born in the East and had never seen the land of Aman in the West.

They had a home, and Gandalf did not, not so long as his mission remained as it was. Still, he could not complain. His life as a wizard had shown him a great deal, and he had a place to return to often—almost like a home, among the hobbits of the Shire. Indeed, if he were ever to name a place in Endor home, it would be the Shire, where friends lived and died, but ensured his friendship passed on to their children, and their children's children, and that he would always be welcome totheir homes.

When Belladonna was tired, she climbed back onto the cart, and Gandalf let her lean against his arm, which was softer than the wooden frame on her other side.

“So we'll see them off when we get to the harbour?” Belladonna asked.

“Yes. They will sail upon white ships across the sea to where they once lived among the Valar, and the rest of their kin,” said Gandalf. “In the Undying Lands, in Valinor—Aman, to the West.”

“It is sad,” Belladonna said softly. She looked up at Gandalf for assurance, then looked down again in shame.

“Why is it sad?” Gandalf asked genuinely.

“Because there's so much of this world to see,” Belladonna answered, “and they still have all their lives to see it. But they choose to just... leave. If I lived as long as any elf, I would spend every second of my life making it worth the living.”

She yawned, settling against the crook of Gandalf's clothed elbow. “No offence meant to them, of course,” she murmured roundly. Soon, rocked by the steady rhythm of the road, she fell asleep, and Gandalf spared a hand to brush the curls from her face as they rode well into the night.

 

They bade their friends farewell at the Grey Havens, Belladonna receiving kisses upon her dark-haired head from the elves who liked her very much, and favoured her for her loveliness and her liveliness in equal measure.

“You are very beautiful, Belladonna Took,” one said to her solemnly, his head inclined. “For anyone who relies upon sight to see, and for anyone who has their wits about them. We were lucky to have met you.”

Belladonna took the compliments graciously, though later, standing at dock as one by one, ships launched from the harbour, she spoke up about it once more.

“Fancy that,” she said. “Elves, calling me beautiful. Why, they are the most beautiful creatures in all of the world. I must be a plain, funny thing to them.”

“But you are beautiful,” Gandalf said. “And he was right to say it, if you do not believe it yourself.”

Belladonna wrung her hands together. “Gandalf... do you think I am?”

“Are what?”

“Beautiful,” Belladonna responded, looking out over the water.

“I am a friend of many of the fair-folk, Belladonna Took. I have seen the world and its many peoples. And believe me when I say that you are, quite plainly, an exceptionally beautiful young woman,” Gandalf said, nodding as she looked uncertainly up at him.

She smiled then, and it was as the midday sun, shining beyond the clouds, as if saying its own goodbyes to the Children of Illuvitar, crossing back to where they belonged. 


	3. In the gardens of Imladris

Their journey brought them soon to Imladris, and Gandalf laughed heartily at the sight of Belladonna's eyes wider than they'd ever been, her gaze stretching far, up, and out onto the Hidden Valley. They walked a narrow path as petals fell from trees overflowing with colour, weighed down by fruit and flower. There was music in the air, and Belladonna stood up on the cart and hummed what tunes she caught. Passing elves ogled at them from the walkways above, whispering to one another in rapid Elvish. Belladonna waved at them, and charmed, they laughed and waved back.

“Mithrandir! Gandalf, my old friend.”

“Mellon-nin! Ah, Belladonna Took of the Shire, allow me to introduce you to Lord Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris, and its protector,” Gandalf said, pushing her forward encouragingly.

“H—how do you do, my lord,” Belladonna said, shaking with anxiousness, before decisively holding her head up, looking the elf lord straight in the eye. He was stranger than the other elves—wiser, somehow, and unlike the elves they'd met along the way, who had seemed quite young even in their age, he looked to be both old and young at once. His smile was kind, and he gave her a bow as he said, “Welcome to Rivendell, Belladonna Took of the Shire. It is my honour to welcome you here to our home.”

“And what a beautiful home it is,” said Belladonna, softening. “I've never seen a finer place than this.”

“I thank you,” he said kindly. “And I welcome you to enjoy all that it has to offer. Gandalf said he would be having a special guest with him upon his next visit, and suffice it to say, I have not seen your kind in many years, and certainly never here in Rivendell. I hope you will excuse the stares,” he added, gesturing to the passing elves who greeted her in elegant Elvish and accented Westron, their enthusiasm like that of a people much younger than they were.

Certainly Rivendell was nothing like Belladonna had ever seen before. Their gardens were filled with blooming trees and bushes, some heavy with fresh fruit and some still budding. Their structures were wrought in the elegant shape of vines climbing trees and arching stone, with figures of beautiful elves standing tall and larger than life, in the flowing lines of their bodies and robes almost alive.

And the library—oh, the library was vast and beautiful, filled to the brim with tomes and texts. Belladonna had a great love for books, and she knew she would spend days on end just going through whatever she could before she was forced to go home.

Ah, but it was cruel to say 'forced', for she knew she would miss her home before long. Still, she was struck with the melancholy of one who wished that such a great adventure could last forever, and though her adventure was not as wild or far-off as her brothers, it was wonderful to her, all the same.

They spent three weeks in Rivendell, three weeks in the company of elves who had a great love of music and the arts. In those three weeks, Belladonna established herself quite solidly as the charming, lovely hobbit whose company everyone vied for.

It was one peaceful day among many that Gandalf found Belladonna sitting in the garden alone, an enormous book spread out on her lap.

“I'm surprised they let you out of their sight for an instant,” Gandalf remarked. Belladonna smiled, tired but warm, and gestured for Gandalf to take a seat beside her. The bench she'd chosen was low enough for his knees to come up higher than normal, but was tall enough that Belladonna's own feet were raised off the ground.

“They're all quite lovely, but too much of even a good thing can be tiresome,” Belladonna sighed. “And I just wanted to be alone.”

“Then I shan't keep you,” said Gandalf, promptly standing up again. He was prevented from moving away, though, when Belladonna grabbed his sleeve.

“I'd much rather be alone with you than without,” Belladonna said shyly, and Gandalf sat down again.

“A history of Middle Earth, a collection of first-hand accounts in naming order. Is it proving to be an interesting read?” Gandalf asked then, peering down at the tome.

“Yes, it is,” Belladonna said. “I've just gotten to Cirdan the Shipwright. We met him at the port, didn't we? When the others were sailing west?”

“Yes, indeed we did.”

“He had a beard,” Belladonna remembered. “I never knew elves could grow beards, but he had one.”

“Cirdan is a singular fellow, with the wisdom and good judgement of any worthy elf lord, and older than most,” Gandalf said. “If I saw him more frequently, I would count him as a friend, though I must say by his virtue, he is more than deserving of the title.”

Belladonna scooted closer, and fiddled with the corner of a page before speaking again. “I read something from Cirdan's passages. Something about the Second Age.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I...” She turned to him, meeting his gaze questioningly. “They call you Mithrandir here, don't they?”

“Mithrandir is the name of mine that is most common among elves,” Gandalf confirmed.

“But that's not your only name, is it? Apart from Gandalf, that is,” Belladonna continued.

“Right again.”

“I read Cirdan's accounts, and I could swear... He spoke of five _Istari_ who landed here in the Second Age, many centuries ago. I don't know what _Istari_ are, I'd be lying if I said I did, but one of them was described by Cirdan as having a long grey beard, and grey clothes, and frankly impressive eyebrows,” Belladonna laughed, and Gandalf chuckled in amusement. “He called him Olorin, named him the wisest of the order. Was that you as well?”

Gandalf mulled over what he would say, wondering how much of the truth he could reveal. In the end, he decided to tell her as much as she asked, and answered, “Yes. My name was Olorin,” in a wistful murmur. “But that was long ago. I go by other names now.”

“He said that the _Istari_ were powerful beings, more powerful than any elf, dwarf, or man,” Belladonna continued, excitement and anxiety tingeing her voice. “I know that wizards have magic, but he said you had powers beyond imagining, and that you use it to... to fight evil.”

“That was our mission,” said Gandalf. “The reason I came to this place, with four others. I wander where I will, helping those I can from the harm that evil brings, but I am no more than what you see—an old traveller, and little more.”

“You are much more than that, it's clear,” said Belladonna, slumping. “I don't know why you waste your time with us. We must seem so very little to you, and not just in height. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things, so short lived, and without any acts of valour or heroism like the tall folk of Men.”

Gandalf huffed, shaking his head quickly. “Do you think so very little of yourself, even when among elves, you are beloved? I am much, much too old, and yet each day brings something new that reminds me that every lifetime I live is worth the living. In this lifetime, it is you that brings to me once more the beauty life brings in the moments I least expect.”

Belladonna stood on the bench, standing high enough to level with Gandalf and meet his gaze. She reached out with gentle hands and cupped his cheeks, and with a thoughtful look, kissed him.

It was a small kiss, a mere peck, but there was so much in her eyes. So much love, so much fear, so much of that alien wisdom Gandalf saw in mortal beings, who had yet to live his years and yet knew many things that he did not.

“I love you,” Belladonna said quietly, barely a whisper. “Do you lo—do you think you could love me?”

Gandalf took her hands and enclosed them in his own, smiling in a way he knew he'd never done before, and never would again—smiling at one he had fallen in love with.

“I do,” he said, and they embraced in the quiet of the garden—a memory Gandalf—whether Mithrandir, whether Tharkun, whether Olorin—would treasure forever.

 


	4. Many colours

“Is it very beautiful?”

“It is vast, and full of new and wonderful and strange things. Forests, Aiwendil, forests with their own life and their own character. And people! Not only Eldar, but Men, and the Khazâd—children of Aulë himself.”

“Curumo! Did you hear that?” Aiwendil looked over his shoulder, his excitement palpable. Curumo flinched, hoping that he might pass unnoticed—but it seemed as though Aiwendil's hearing, that which could distinguish birds by the sound of their wings, could hear his steps as he crept across the hall before the front steps of Aulë's mansion.

It wasn't as though he didn't vie for Aiwendil's company—but only Aiwendil's, and in this moment, his beloved was not alone. Neither had he been alone in the days preceding, when Olorin saw fit to take up his time with stories of his travels in Endor.

Olorin was a brother and a friend, but Curumo did not want his company. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were, with Aiwendil and he alone, with days that seemed endless, but which now he saw found their end in Olorin's presence.

So lost was Curumo in his thoughts that he did not notice Aiwendil approaching until his right hand was enclosed in the soft cupping hands of his love. “Come and sit with us,” the Maia implored, and Curumo could think of no way to refuse without causing Aiwendil distress. Ah, but love had made him soft and foolish. He allowed himself to be dragged to Olorin's side, listening to the Maia prattle on about Endor—the land across the sea, which Curumo did not care to think about.

“You must go, Aiwendil! Your presence would be a great balm to the land, and you would be of more use than most,” said Olorin at length. Curumo turned away, remembering, long ago, sitting on these steps with another—a great and beautiful brother, who had been so good and so pure that Curumo thought he could do no wrong. But by the word of another he fled to a faraway land, and now Curumo feared that those very same words would affect their fates similarly.

He stood up to leave, heedless of Aiwendil's attention suddenly on him, a worried look beginning to weigh on his brow.

“Curumo?” he said softly as the white-haired Maia retreated into the house. He stuttered apologies to Olorin, who showed the same concern when Curumo left with no word. Aiwendil bade him to stay, to wait, and he all but ran after his beloved, catching him in the lower halls on the way to the forges.

“Curumo!” He caught his sleeve, and the white Maia pulled away.

“Go,” he said harshly.

“What is wrong?” Aiwendil asked.

“Leave me be, Aiwendil. Leave, I care not where. Go with Olorin to Endor, leave me here alone. We would both be better for it!”

Aiwendil's hand lifted up to cup his face, a sweet gesture. It angered Curumo, and he struck Aiwendil across the cheek and walked on.

Much later, when Curumo had beaten away his rage in the forges, he returned to his room, tired and regretful, and found Aiwendil sitting there alone in the dark.

“I'm sorry,” Aiwendil said first, before Curumo could speak. “I truly am. If you wish for me to leave, I will. I just want you to know... I know I can be difficult. Sometimes I do things that I'm told are wrong, but I never know what hey are. And I am sorry if I've ruined things.”

 _You haven't,_ Curumo wished to say. _It is my fault,_ he thought. But the words that came were neither of these: “It was a small mistake, easily remedied. I only wish you wouldn't let Olorin cloud your judgement so.”

“Cloud my... he was only... he is a friend,” Aiwendil said, confused.

“Yes, he is a friend. But see, so often does he come to our gardens that I wonder if he has forgotten his own in Lorien. Or does he not find peace in their silver willows, and would rather come here to our lady's realm? But no, he speaks so highly of a place so far from home that I fear that when he next flies, he will take you with him, and I will be left alone. I am a friend to no birds, no eagles like he, I will simply languish here without you if that happens.” His level tone broke, his voice shook, and the truth spilled out at the tail of his speech. He bit his lip to silence himself, and Aiwendil wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him down to warmth, and this time, he did not pull away.

“I will never leave you,” said Aiwendil. “I love you too much. And you love me too much. It would not be worth the pain of separation.”

“I am just so afraid,” Curumo whispered. “Mairon... Sauron,” he spat. “I thought he was a friend. I thought he was family. I thought he valued home as much as I did, but we know all too well how lowly he regards us now. I fear that more of whom I care for will leave me, and I will fade to nothing as no one will care enough to stay.”

Aiwendil smiled, squeezing his hands. “I will stay.”

“Then,” Curumo said gently, his voice sweet and soothing, sending Aiwendil's troubles clear away, “then do something for me. Please.”

“Anything,” Aiwendil said.

Curumo enfolded his beloved in his arms and said, sweetly, softly, “Stay with me. And forget Olorin, please. Are we not happy, alone together?”

If Aiwendil had known then what he would come to know in the future, he might have seen the harm in Curumo's words, no matter the sweet way they were said. But Aiwendil was a humble soul, and no one could blame him, for Curumo's sweet words would come to ensnare many after he. 


	5. Bungo Baggins

“Bella! Bella, come quick! He's coming!” 

Bella was frantic, tying ribbons and brushing her hair as quick as she could. Their siblings looked on musingly as their youngest brother and eldest sister ran ahead to the hill. Gandalf was coming, and it was Isengar's time for adventure.

Gandalf was no stranger to the people of Hobbiton, though few knew of the promise of adventure he'd given to Gerontius' children. It was all hushed up, but for rumour and hearsay to colour what would otherwise be an uneventful day.

Each time Gandalf returned, Belladonna would offer to take him to the riverside, or to the groves, and Gandalf's magic ensured they would not be spotted—after all, when people talked, they talked! And what a scandal that would have been, if anyone knew.

Isengar seemed to, but Isengar was always a sharp one. And when the time he spent with Gandalf was much depleted by his sister and the well-hidden but still-apparent smitten expression on her face, there were few other conclusions he could come to. He entertained the notion of having a wizard in the family, and wondered what that would be like. Might be nice. Might be trouble, too, but that wasn't such a terrible thing in boring old Hobbiton.

He doubted anyone but himself could see it, see how much adoration was in their eyes, how much love. Gandalf was too foreign, too strange. Why, the idea that the beautiful Belladonna Took had eyes for a wizened old man—as far as the people of the Shire were concerned, it was quite impossible!

But all the same, Isengar saw it. And he was the only one who did.

So by the time he left with his sisters, all of them off to see the ocean and the forests and other such far reaches of the land, he had decided that if anyone were to welcome Gandalf into the family, it would be him. He just had to be smart about it, for even he knew that a wizard in the family would not be welcomed, especially for his well-loved, sought-after sister.

By the time they were journeying home, he'd thought up quite the solution for the matter. Gandalf, on his part, huffed and grumbled, but he did not disapprove.

And short months after Gandalf's departure from the Shire, one Bungo Baggins came to court at the door, seeking the hand of the remarkable Belladonna Took.

 

Bungo Baggins. Ah, but everyone knew Bungo! He was a quiet lad, subdued and responsible, as a proper Baggins should be. Unlike other Bagginses, however, his tastes ran to the academically interesting—that which his family considered to be unusual. The world outside the Shire was something that intrigued him to no end, and he had a great love of books, of reading and writing, and of scholarly endeavours. He was much too proper of a Baggins to ever conceive of going on adventures—he was more comfortable dreaming them up, or imagining them, but his heart lay in the rolling hills of the Shire.

That was what everyone knew about Bungo. An alarming amount, considering the fact that to anyone who thought very, very hard about Bungo Baggins, they might have realized that he had only been around for a few months—a few months after Gandalf the Grey was last seen in Hobbiton.

But with so many so sure of him and the history they'd shared with him, they didn't mind. After all, why doubt when everyone else in the community seemed to remember him as well? No sense lingering on ambiguity.

And though Belladonna was quite the contrary lass, Bungo almost too easily won her heart. They had a short courtship, shorter still when Bungo began to construct a home for them on Bagshot Row, a luxurious and winding hobbit hole that had lasses swooning and lads shaking their heads, knowing they could not even begin to compare.

Their wedding was a happy one, a beautiful one. Belladonna wore flowers in her hair, and they danced and danced the night away—even if Bungo danced something like a chicken flapping its wings, scaring away flocking birds in a meadow.

And far beyond the Shire, Elves, Dwarves, Men, Eagles and creatures and races of all kind found themselves wondering, though not too often or too deeply, where the grey pilgrim, the wizard who they counted as their friend, had gone.

  
  


Some years later, they had a son. More than either of them, “Uncle” Isengar was thoroughly delighted, insisting on names that were not used. Bilbo was the name that Bungo chose, and the child with his honey curls was doted on by his uncles and aunts.

They were happy, even between the quiet trips Bungo took out of the Shire, where few knew that he'd even gone except the gardener, who was asked to keep quiet about it all, and who spent time with Bilbo when his father was absent. But who was Hamfast to question the kindly rich folk who'd hired him? And anyway, it didn't seem like Bungo was a bad father. Quite the opposite, in fact—Bungo was a caring father, loving and supportive, stern but fair. Bilbo adored him, and asked after him when he was gone, and all Belladonna could tell him was that his father was a very important hobbit, and had very many jobs that required him, and that it was a secret and that he could not tell a soul.

In Bilbo's youth, the trips were not too frequent, and he spent many days in his father's loving presence. But as he grew older, the trips went for longer, and often he would find himself sitting at the window, waiting for his father to return.

“Your father is a very important, and very busy man,” said his visiting Uncle Isengar. “And he always comes back, doesn't he? And he always brings you some special things—books to add to the library, maps and trinkets and such?” 

“Yes, I know. Mother always tells me that he's important, and busy, but she never says why, or what he does. Doesn't it all seem strange?” Bilbo said, curious and somewhat grim at eighteen years of age, older than a child but younger than a tween. 

“When you're old enough, perhaps you'll go on an adventure with him,” Isengar said idly. “It will be a grand one, no doubt. Only the best for his eldest son.”

_ His only son,  _ Bilbo didn't say, and he retreated to the den where his mother had fallen asleep in an armchair, a silk cloth in her hands that was not at all hobbitish—but Elvish, to be sure by the markings. Bilbo studied them, running his fingers over the cloth, and hoped that Uncle Isengar was right. If his father was as important as they said, surely he would have met some Elves, like mother had. And perhaps he'd finally figure out what it was that his father did on all those long trips away from home. 

For now, his only hope was that Bungo would be home before the winter. It promised to be a cold one, more so than they were used to, and Bilbo just wanted his family together for it.

But even when the first snow fell upon the Shire, rising steadily on the rolling hills, Bilbo was still waiting.

  
  


And as the young Bilbo wondered why his father was away so often, some distance away, in the black tower Orthanc of Isengard, Saruman the White pondered deeply on the frequency of Gandalf the Grey's visits to the hobbitish settlement.

For many years, Saruman had been faithfully attending to his duties. He took over Isengard for the sake of the people of Rohan, who were in need of guidance in such trying times, and a method by which the wild Dunlendings could no longer hold the fortress as they had before.

And where was Gandalf in these trying times? Gandalf the Grey had been wandering, helping who he could, something Saruman could not fault him for—but he watched the other wizard closely, and was rewarded in the knowledge that the grey pilgrim seemed preoccupied with the Shire, as of late.

For what reason, he could not comprehend, but it was suspicious, all the same.

  
  


Saruman continued to keep a close eye on Gandalf's movements, all the same, for he knew that there was little he could trust about the Grey wizard and his questionable intentions. But the time between his duties and his surveillance, he used to search for an artefact lost to the world long ago.

If Gandalf did not ruin his plans as he was wont to do, perhaps Saruman might finally find it. He just needed more time. And if whatever it was in the Shire that brought him such interest kept him away, who was he to question the blessing?

  
  


The winter was harsher than most, and longer than she remembered experiencing in her lifetime. The chill was strong enough to settle into one's bones, and Belladonna found that the great tree that she and her husband so loved was covered in frost, dead and cracking—at least until this fell winter passed.

“The Brandywine is freezing right over. Food's scarce. This is getting to be the worst winter we've ever faced,” said Isengrim. “Are you sure you're doing all right on your own, sister? I hear Bungo still hasn't returned from his travels,” Hildigrim remarked.

“Where do you hear that?” Belladonna murmured, but righted herself saying, “he's sent letters. He's quite safe, and on his way back. When this snowfall eases, he'll return. And Bilbo has been a great help. We've been making sure our stores don't run out. Our larders are still filled, open to those in need. Mira, do you need some more flour in yours?”

“I wouldn't want to be a burden, Bella.”

“Not at all! We're two in the family and we're not ravenous. Just bring your meals down to four or five a day, and only eat what you need to, and all should be well. I'll send some along to you.”

Life went on in the Shire, and though difficult, it was not terrible. Things could be worse, of course, and in the days where the cold was bearable, even pleasantly cool, Bilbo would spend the mornings with his mother under the tree where she and his father spent their time, and would have a nice warm drink at the Green Dragon in the early evening. Late in the evening, he would sit by the fireplace and he and his mother would read from old books, that which his father had collected over time.

This night, he found a small journal, written in delicate, spidery Westron.

“What's this, mother?”

“That? Oh! Oh, that's my travel book. The things that I saw when I left the Shire with... with Gandalf the Grey. You do remember him, don't you?”

Bilbo wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully. “He was there when I was young, wasn't he? The party, the fireworks?”

Belladonna smiled oddly, but nodded. “Yes, he was there. I'm surprised you don't know more about him. He's a wizard, you know.”

Bilbo nodded absently, rifling through the pages and finding little drawings as well.

“You don't talk much about him, really,” Bilbo said, shrugging. Belladonna sighed. “I suppose I don't. What's there to talk about? He hasn't been seen around the Shire for years now.”

There was an odd inflection to his mother's statement, but Bilbo didn't much think on it. He took the book and settled into his father's seat, soon enough so enamoured by the tale that he was still reading even as the fire was beginning to go out.

“Why don't you talk about Gandalf more?” Bilbo asked when his mother asked if he wanted her to keep the fire going. “All the adventures you and my aunts and uncles been on with him... and the way you write about him, it seems as though he was someone very special.”

“He is,” Belladonna said. “Without him, my life would have been vastly different. I wouldn't have everything I do now.”

Bilbo raised a curious brow. “What do you mean?”

Belladonna shook her head. “Oh, nothing. Just the reminiscence of an old biddy, pay it no mind.”

“You're not that old, mum,” Bilbo said, smiling. “And you're _still_ the most beautiful hobbit lass in the whole of the Shire.”

“You're an absolute delight, you are,” Belladonna said wryly.

“I got it from you,” Bilbo answered quickly, grinning. Belladonna came over and embraced her son. “You're growing tall,” she said. “You certainly didn't get that from me.”

“What you mean to say is that I'm growing older,” Bilbo said. “And hopefully more responsible.”

“A little irresponsibility never hurt anyone,” Belladonna said, winking. “But don't tell your father I said that. He's coming home soon. Expect him in a week or two, he said.”

Bilbo nodded eagerly, wondering what would happen within a week or two in waiting for Bungo to come home. What he did not know was that at that very moment, the chill was deep enough that the last of the flowing Brandywine began to freeze, and in a week's time, would be frozen so solid that one could walk on it.

A once mighty rushing river, frozen over by the long and fell winter, sending a kindly land of sun and green into cold and dark. In a week's time, what safety they might have had from the wide body of water would be taken away.

 


	6. Grey

His name was Aiwendil, “bird friend.” He was happy. By nature, he was happy, and this happiness was what he sought, always. He smiled softly as he gently spun the delicate crystal flower between his fingers.

In love, he was happy. Had been, at least. That time seemed so distant now, but here he was, holding a keepsake of that time in his hands.

Curumo was not happy. Aiwendil was afraid that he hadn't been happy in a very long time. He always seemed troubled—by his responsibilities, by the rising dark in the East, and even when he smiled and kissed him, Aiwendil would see his brow wrinkle and his mouth tighten, and he would go away for days at a time. In those days, Aiwendil took his joy from the birds and animals, or found refuge in the shadows of the trees.

He dreamt of Endor, the land beyond the sea. Of the Ents his lady had created to protect the trees. Of the horses and the birds and the bears, of skinchangers, trolls, and all the creatures Olorin had told him about. He thought that if he could only go, he would be happy.

But then he would be leaving Curumo behind, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Aiwendil was not grim by nature, and as his favourite crystal flower shimmered in the meagre light, he smiled, warmth filling his heart once more.

“Aiwendil!” 

The maia startled at the call, at its urgency, and in that very moment, he heard the shattering of crystal as the flower broke against the floor, and he turned to see Curumo standing at the door, his expression stern.

“Curumo I—”

“We're summoned,” Curumo said quickly. 

“But the... the flower,” Aiwendil said weakly, looking down at the broken gift. 

“Leave it, Aiwendil,” Curumo said, taking him by the arm. “We must go.” 

And they did—leave it, that is, pieces shimmering on the ground, and eventually losing their light altogether, the colour fading from the shards.

~*~

The river had frozen, and the wolves were on the prowl. Bilbo checked the windows every so often, and though he saw nothing, he knew that it was too dangerous to go outside when the creatures of Mannish size were looking for an easy meal.

He was afraid. That much was certain of him and all in the Shire, holed up in their homes and hoping for the best.

Bilbo didn't know how many had died. He didn't care to know. He just wanted them to go away. He was a child again, tucked against his mother in front of the fire.

“What about Papa? What'll happen to him?”

“He'll be fine,” Belladonna assured. “I promise he will.” 

From outside the window, the wolves were howling, and the cold, crisp air carried their growls and their snarls to Bag End's door. Bilbo and Belladonna hugged each other tight as alien shouts and the sounds of a scuffle went on outside. 

“What's happening?” Belladonna whispered. Bilbo checked the window, where he could see torchlight moving swiftly in the dark. 

“I can't see,” Bilbo said, and Belladonna joined him at the window. 

“The rangers. There are rangers!” Belladonna unlatched the door, and dressed in nothing but her night clothes, ran down the steps to Bag End, her warm breath leaving trails of smoke. 

“Mama! Mother, wait!” Bilbo was terrified, torn between going after his mother, who'd disappeared down the unlit road, and looking for a lantern and a weapon, and warm clothes to keep them from freezing in the wintry dark. 

He was able to take a lantern and one of their bedding sheets, and grabbing a long-handled hoe leaning against the frame of the gate, he went after her. 

He didn't have to run far, for right down the snowy path, her footsteps ended at a tall, shadowy figure, and when Bilbo lifted his lantern he saw her held off the ground tight and safe, in the embrace of an old man—no, no. An old wizard. 

Gandalf the Grey. 

 


	7. Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for hinted abusive behavior! Just to be safe.

There were three Istari, first. Not many remember that, though not many remember that there were five before the two blue wizards disappeared, and the world was left with three once more.

There were five that came to Middle Earth: The white, the grey, the brown, and two blue Istari.

But at first, there were three.

Manwë needed only three—messengers of the Maiar who would aid and unite the Free Peoples of Middle Earth against Sauron's coming to power. Of the many Maia who came to answer these summons, two stood apart, ready to serve as their masters commanded.

Curumo was one. Aulë trusted him, trusted his wisdom and power, and Curumo was more than honoured to have that trust. The other was Alatar, sent by Oromë. As they stood in council, Aiwendil was by Curumo's side, nervous but silent in the midst of the Ainur's discussion. Alatar, similarly, had someone standing by his side as well—he and Pallando, also under Oromë, were close as brothers, and if it were something more, one could not tell. Their intimacy was candid, unlike the hidden nature of Curumo and Aiwendil's. Even as Aiwendil wished to take Curumo's hand for comfort, he restrained himself.

At least, until Olorin came, summoned by Manwë and ordered to go along with the others.

“I am too weak,” said Olorin, and Aiwendil felt Curumo's hand relax in his grip. “And I do not believe I have the strength to go against Sauron. He is more powerful than we'd first imagined, and his presence in Endor is overwhelming. Already, you have Curumo, who knew him better than I ever did, and Pallando, whose strength and swiftness might hold strong against Sauron's power.” 

“There is something in you that is lacking in either of them, for their strengths are theirs and yours are yours. You shall go,” Manwë said. And softer, he added, “I trust you, Olorin. Yours is a strength unlike other strengths, and you shall see it come to fruition in time. You shall be the third of our three messengers.”

“Not the third,” said Varda suddenly. 

Aiwendil looked to Curumo and down at their hands, where the Maia's grip had tightened considerably on his own. And then, when the three were made to come forward, Curumo let go.

Where he'd held Aiwendil's hand, there were fingermarks, which soon faded into nothing.

The three were bidden to go in the Valar's stead, to protect the people of Middle Earth, to help them, but to not exert power over them as Sauron would. They would go in the guise of weakness, as old men, though they would not be weak in truth.

Before the gathering came to a close, Yavanna took Aiwendil's hand and crossed to where Curumo stood.

She linked their hands again. “Bring him with you,” she said to Curumo. “Sauron's power harms more than the people of Middle Earth. I need my most trusted to go in my stead to protect those others would not think to protect.”

Curumo pulled Aiwendil close, and Aiwendil could almost imagine he was smiling when he said, “I will,” in a soothing acquiesce.

Beyond them, Alatar asked to bring Pallando as well, to strengthen their forces.

Olorin brought no one, but smiled brightly at Aiwendil when he caught his eye. Aiwendil smiled back.

In the end, when the five arrived, Aiwendil's ship was beside Olorin's. He watched as the Maia was given the ring of fire, and watched the hatred come upon Curumo's new face.

Soon enough, the two blue wizards were gone, taking Curumo—Saruman, now, with them, to the East, leaving Aiwendil—Radagast, now, with Olorin.

Gandalf the Grey.

And in that time away from the others, their friendship grew to trust, a trust Gandalf would value more than he knew then, in the days that would come to pass.

~*~

“It's good to meet you, finally. Even under such dire circumstances. But you brought food, and help, and, it seems, the end of this fell winter,” Bilbo said in his most adult voice. Gandalf smiled down at him and replied, “I only wish I could have gotten here sooner. I did not know how dire things had gotten. It's... it's good to meet you, young Bilbo Baggins,” he added, a thoughtful, near ironic smile on his face.

“It's... well, yes,” Bilbo said, flustered. “Thank you, Mister Gandalf.”

“Just Gandalf, thank you. And for all the kindness the people of the Shire have shown me over the years, this was the very least I could do. Ah, tell me Bilbo, how have you and your mother been?”

“You came before it got any worse,” Bilbo said. “We're shaken, but not too terribly. I only worry for my papa. He's meant to come home, but with this winter and the dangers out there... I wish he'd come home.”

“Bilbo,” Gandalf murmured. He trailed off, instead putting a great hand on Bilbo's shoulder. “I'm sure he's safe.”

“You're just saying that to make me feel better, aren't you?” Bilbo muttered, but when he saw the serious look in Gandalf's eyes he shut his mouth.

“Are you saying that you don't believe me? I'm a wizard, after all. There are many things we wizards know that the average hobbit does not. Such as the fact that if your father were here right now, he'd tell you to take a deep breath, smooth down your shirt, and put on your best face, because you are the most unshakeable of hobbits. A Took and a Baggins both. Take pride and never be afraid.”

Bilbo smiled, and the trouble in his heart lifted.

“That is exactly what my papa would say,” he said wistfully. An odd look passed over his face, and he looked as though he wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it. “Thank you, Gandalf,” he said instead.

“Any time, my dear boy. Any time at all.”

Gandalf left after a week. The day after his departure, Bungo Baggins arrived at Bag End's door, greeting his family with the fear and vigour of one who missed them dearly.

The same night, Bilbo awoke hungry. He sneaked past his parents' bedroom to the pantry to have a good old-fashioned midnight snack, when he realized that the fire was still going in the living room, and his parents were up, arguing in hushed tones.

“There is something terribly wrong happening, Belladonna. I cannot stay for much longer. The more time I spend here is less time spent helping my friends and allies circumvent this darkness that is spreading over the land like a rot under the earth.”

Bilbo wasn't used to his father speaking so direly. He hid in the pantry, though in his curiosity, had quite forgotten to take something to eat.

“And what of your family? Does the company of your wife and son not compare to that of your allies?”

“The _safety_ of my family is my priority, above all else. Look at what's happened! The Shire, plagued by wolves. Bandits and vagabonds roaming along the paths. This winter, I have only ever seen it once before, and it tells of ill times ahead. I must do everything in my power to protect my family, to protect my home, even if it means I must depart from it for a time.” 

There was silence, and for a while, Bilbo wondered if that was that, and if they were going to settle into bed, tired of the day and their own argument. 

Then he heard Belladonna speak, softer than before, but enough to be heard. 

“I know that you have lived for longer than I can imagine, and will live much longer past me, but if you leave... I fear you'll never come back. Not in my lifetime.” 

There was silence, then the sound of shuffling. Bilbo strained to listen, and realized that he could hear his mother crying. His confusion gave way to sadness—his mother never cried. She was always so full of life, so much happier than anyone he'd ever known. 

He heard his father murmur something unintelligible, before slipping off to bed as the fireplace was put out. 

Over the next few months, Bilbo was relieved to find that his father's trips were fewer and farther in between, though he'd taken to letter writing nearly every day. 

And still, the young Baggins was plagued by the mystery of his parents' conversation that night, and what it entailed.

Bilbo was a smart lad. But still, it was a leap, what he thought of the whole situation. It would need proof. Confirmation. A confrontation, of sorts. A plan of action. 

He never thought that his father would confess if he just asked. But he did. Of course he did. 

“No, my dear boy. I most certainly am not.” was Bungo's candid answer, to Bilbo's apprehensive question. 

“Papa... are you truly a hobbit?” 

The next question wasn't so easily answered. 

“What are you?” 

 


	8. Memories that time forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that wizards and hobbits forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's been giving feedback! Seriously. This kick of inspiration (and slightly rushed chapter) is dedicated to all of you.

“I would love to meet him one day, Gandalf. He seems like a fine lad. A son! How delightful. I never thought we could have children.” 

“Melian had Luthien, very long ago,” Gandalf reminded. “Although admittedly, I hadn't thought of children until Belladonna told me. A miracle among miracles.” 

Radagast smiled brightly, the birds perched on his head chirping happily. “A miracle indeed. I am happy for you, Gandalf. Love is a wonderful thing.”

Gandalf raised an impressive, wry eyebrow. “And how do you know, my old friend, how wonderful love can be? Could it be that you have experienced it for yourself without my knowledge?”

He meant to be teasing, but the way Radagast's face fell drew all the humour out of the situation, and Gandalf sat down on Radagast's gnarled wooden chair, tilting his head in question. “Radagast?” he murmured. “What is it?”

Radagast startled out of his strange, melancholy reverie, looking around like a frightened mouse and then gesturing for Gandalf to come over. Cautiously, the grey wizard did, and Radagast rapped his knuckles against the tree trunk that had grown right through his home. He then reached into a near-invisible knotted hole in its heart and pulled something out, delicately and carefully.

It was a flower, Gandalf saw, and it was the most beautiful flower he'd ever seen. Only when the sunlight struck it did Gandalf realize that it wasn't even real—that it was finely shaped crystal, nothing that could have come from Endor that Gandalf could think of.

“I loved someone,” Radagast said quietly, sorrow roughening the quality of his voice. “And he loved me, so very much. But he doesn't now, I don't think. We haven't spoken in years, certainly not of anything but responsibility and our mission and my incompetence and—”

“Radagast,” Gandalf interrupted. “Aiwendil,” he said shortly after, and Radagast flinched at the name. “Did you... was it...” 

Radagast nodded, looking smaller than Gandalf had ever seen him.

“Saruman, then,” Gandalf murmured. “Curumo was your beloved,” he continued. 

“A very, very long time ago,” Radagast said. “Forgotten by time. Forgotten by him. But I still remember. My mind is... it's not clear, it's muddled as any Man's mind might be in the strange air of a strange wood, but I remember as clear as the crystal in this flower. Even if... well, the world is strange here, Gandalf. Time is strange. Darkness rises and falls, and we have peace for a time, but it rises again.” 

“I have never seen you so grim, my old friend,” Gandalf said sadly. “It pains me to know that I have been blind to your griefs for so long.” 

“I... I'm afraid, Gandalf,” Radagast confessed. “My task has never been yours, or... Saruman's, or even that of our friends... our friends... I knew their names, I knew them,” he said frustratedly. 

“Peace, Radagast,” Gandalf said. “I do not remember them either,” he said grimly. “Perhaps when we are returned to the West, we shall recover these things, but—”

“Will we, Gandalf?” Radagast said. “Will we return West? Will we see the trees again? See the lights? The water, the willows, the many colours of Lord Aulë's forge? It has been so long, after all.” 

“When our mission is done, we shall,” Gandalf assured. Radagast shook his head. “My mission was never yours, Gandalf,” he said. “My mission was to care for the trees, the plants, the animals. Because there was nobody left to watch over them. That is why I came. And that is why I fear I will never leave, for those who are like me have departed from this earth, or have gone somewhere far away, or are disappearing as we speak. Nobody cares about the trees anymore, Gandalf.” 

“Come now,” Gandalf said loudly to cover up the chill in his own heart. He wrapped his arms around Radagast's shoulders. “Hush now,” he said. “You have done honourably. You are uncorrupted, and have not once turned from your mission. You will be rewarded for that loyalty, Radagast. Trust me on this.” 

And lightly, he added. “Saruman cares for the trees in Isengard. He is friendly to the living ones in Fangorn, and the tree-herders that still roam there. And it is in no small part, I think, thanks to your influence. You are better than us in many ways, Radagast. Do not let doubt cloud your heart.”

When they parted, Radagast seemed to gain back the strange spark in his eyes, the one that kept him busy and distracted, that which made him odd, but still no less great in Gandalf's mind. 

“Thank you,” he said, and for a moment, a bright light shone from nowhere, and the one who stood before him looked far too young to be the Radagast Gandalf knew. “Thank you, Olorin.” 

And then the vision was gone, and he was Radagast again. “I mean, Gandalf. Thank you. Um, as I said... you should let me meet this son of yours one day. I would so love to get to know the lad.” 

“Of course, my friend,” Gandalf said, his tone belying his uncertainty. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

That day, Bilbo's father told him the whole truth. Of what he was. Of why he did what he did. Of why he travelled so often away from home. 

Of the imminent death of Bungo Baggins of the Shire, and the departure of Gandalf the Grey. 

“You can't just leave! You can't just abandon us like this!” Bilbo said angrily. 

“I cannot risk you or your mother,” said his father. “I cannot bear to see you harmed. There are things which are far beyond my control and far too dangerous for me to lead home.”

“I will follow you,” said Bilbo. “You know I will not stop. All the dangers in the world couldn't keep me away.” 

And in that one moment, Gandalf looked upon his son with pure grief, the kind he could not remember feeling in all the lifetimes he'd remained. 

“I know. And I am sorry,” he said, as his great hand passed over his young hobbit son's eyes, and a whispered spell in Quenya passed from his lips. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

His heart nearly broke at the hobbit's next words, though he knew he had no right to feel so. 

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“Well you know my name, but you do not remember I belong to it! I'm Gandalf! And Gandalf means... me!” His words were filled with hope. Hope, that perhaps spells were, like names and such things, forgotten—faded over time.

Bilbo's eyes lit up with recognition. Gandalf waited with baited breath. 

“Not Gandalf, the wandering wizard who made such excellent fireworks—the Old Took used to have them on midsummer's Eve!” 

Gandalf sighed. “Well I'm pleased you remember something about me. Even if it is just my fireworks.”

_ Don't you start blaming my son for your actions, you old fool,  _ a voice very much like Belladonna's chided in his mind.  _ Don't start now.  _

No, he wouldn't. Not now. Not after thirty years. 

Not after what he'd done. 

 


End file.
